A great Singhalese abbot has passed away. It is a national event. The
hillside near Kandy is thronged with great companies of monks in every
shade of yellow and brown, while around them surges a sombre sea of
the faithful laity. In the centre of the huge assemblage is the
funeral-pyre, draped in white and red. Standing beside it, a monk is
telling in solemn and mournful tones of the greatness and goodness of
the departed, who, though he had not become worthy of _Nibbāna_, had
his feet surely set upon the upward path leading to a good rebirth in
_so-wan_, a heaven. Then amidst solemn chanting and the wailing of
flutes and throbbing of drums he applies a torch to the pyre. While
the people bow their heads and cry "_sadhu_" (Amen), the body turns to
ashes. Then solemnly and silently the great throng disperses, the lay
people to take up the ordinary duties of life, the monks to meditate
upon its transient character and unreality. And here a young novice,
to whom the dead man has been very dear, stays weeping, until the last
embers die down and night comes swiftly on.